


OSS #2 Friends to Lovers

by somewhereelse



Series: bee-eye-en-gee-oh [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Olicity Summer Sizzle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 08:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19390690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereelse/pseuds/somewhereelse
Summary: Because what the world really needs is some Mindy Kaling/BJ Novak-esque speculative lovers-to-friends-to-lovers AU. I blame BuzzFeed.That’s it. That’s the whole summary.(Chapter 2 being the extended, director’s cut edition.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spot the _What a Girl Wants_ reference.

“So tell me...”

“Oh no,” Felicity groans exaggeratedly, smoothing a hand over her stomach.

"Oh yes," the reporter counters, glancing quickly at the path her hand takes, “the dreaded question.”

With a forced smile, she concedes, “Kind of hard to ignore the elephant—or baby bump—in the room, I guess.”

“Exactly! So you don’t blame me for asking?”

As if this topic hasn’t been extensively vetted by her publicist Dinah, every word of every question subject to approval. Still, Felicity shrugs like it’s entirely unexpected and off the cuff. “Someone was bound to. Go for it.”

“Any chance we’ll ever learn who the father of your baby is?” The reporter leans in, as if they’re sharing a secret and there aren’t multiple cameras and microphones positioned to best capture her every microexpression and exhale.

“No. _Hard no_ ,” Felicity’s tone is stone cold, and she pays zero attention to the reporter’s crestfallen expression, “Putting aside the creepiness of complete strangers wanting to know exactly how a fetus got in my womb and who put it there, this is a personal matter, and that’s all there is to it. I may have chosen a life that involves the spotlight because, _somehow_ , a successful female business owner is a novelty, but that doesn’t mean I have to subject my kid to it.”

“Understandable,” the reporter smiles tightly.

Felicity shrugs but doesn’t expand on her answer. She got a quote already, just not the one she wanted.

“But you can’t blame the world for engaging in a little speculation. Your last known relationship was with fellow scientist celebrity Barry Allen, who’s now married to journalist Iris West and a new father of two.”

Felicity genuinely grins. “They’re frakking adorable. I call them the Tornado Twins, which isn’t the most flattering nickname, but I think I can get away with it as their godmother.”

For once, the tangent isn't accidental. Felicity knows exactly what she’s doing in offering up this other piece of personal information. The media is, after all, a give and take relationship. If she wants good publicity for her company and the realities of being a working mother and the need for better family leave policies, then she’s got to give them some click-bait.

Her eyes grow wide as the reporter repeats, “ _Godmother?_ You’re the godmother to your ex’s kids?”

Shrugging, Felicity lets a smug smile slip. Take that, Gwyneth, and all her conscious uncoupling bragging.

“What can’t you do?” the reporter marvels, “This topic definitely hasn’t been approved, but I’m risking it anyway. Felicity Smoak, founder and visionary of a revolutionary technology company, soon-to-be single, working mother, the most amicable ex-girlfriend ever apparently—"

“Flattery gets you everywhere,” Felicity interjects, teasing a grin from the reporter.

“I’m hoping,” she tosses out. “Does that mean the rumors were true and “former paramour of billionaire, playboy, philanthropist Oliver Queen” is among your many accomplishments?”

Felicity blanches. This question she wasn’t expecting. Dinah stands so quickly, her chair goes flying, and she looks ready to cut the interview short at best and murderous at worst. But before Dinah can knock over a camera, Felicity holds up a hand to stop her.

“If only I’d known that I’d have to answer questions about a couple months of amazing sex for the rest of my life, I would have— No, that’s a lie. Still would have done it. Him, I mean.”

The reporter looks like she’s about to pass out from glee, while Dinah actually, literally face palms. Felicity passes off a tight grin and a shrug in an attempt to be more nonchalant than she feels. God, is this what pulling a pin on a grenade is like?

She turns to the nearest camera and smiles directly into the lens, “Sorry, Oliver. Cat’s out of the bag.” Facing the reporter again, Felicity ruefully shakes her head, “We’re still friends, now, so he might eventually forgive me for that one.”

“ _Friends?_ ” the reporter again repeats incredulously. “You’re still _friends_ with _Oliver Queen_ even after”—she shakes her head and forces herself back on track—“You know, with all these options available, the world will never stop guessing who fathered your child.”

“Hey, science is a marvelous thing. I may not even know the answer to that myself,” Felicity points out logically. 

For all anyone else knows, she used an anonymous donor. It’s perfectly plausible that some schmuck—with impeccable genetics—fathered a kid bound to inherit a thriving company, and millions to boot, and has no idea about it.

With an air of disappointment, the reporter dejectedly agrees, “Right. The world will never know. Moving on—”

Dinah’s making furious slashing motions, and the production team seems to realize they’ve completely used up their rope because the reporter cuts herself off. “I mean, it’s been wonderful speaking with you. Thank you for your time, Felicity.”

Felicity manages a magnanimous smile and leverages herself out of the armchair. Diggle, her bodyguard, is immediately there with a helping hand. She leaves Dinah to deal with the fallout as she exits the studio and slips into the waiting car.

Well, this should be a fun couple days of headlines.

* * *

“There’s something wrong with you two.”

“What?” Felicity looks askance at Thea’s harsh and abrupt judgment.

Her longtime friend rolls her eyes. “No one looks at someone like that if they’re not fucking.”

“Thea!”

“ _What?_ ” Another eye roll. “I don’t care if he’s my brother. That’s a true fact.”

After a quick sigh, Felicity launches into her standard disclaimer. “Look. We tried that once. It didn’t work out, and we’re better off as friends. Hell, we’re lucky we managed to salvage that much out of it.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Thea, do you really want to go back to the days we avoided each other and could hardly be in the same room together?” Because that did happen for much too long. Felicity’s not exactly sure how much of that was her immature response and how much was Oliver’s, but getting past it took them months and then, well, _consequences_ , which they’re still coming to grips with.

“No,” Thea pouts.

“Exactly, so just—”

“I was going to say, before you _rudely_ interrupted," the sarcasm bleeds through as Thea loftily continues, "that I would rather go back to the days when you were deliriously happy together.”

“And I’m telling you that’s not happening." If Felicity’s starting to sound cranky and annoyed, well, she’ll just blame the mini human currently using her internal organs as a soccer ball. “For the last time, we’re better off as friends. Besides I’m _pregnant_.”

“Like he cares. And I’m still not entirely convinced that kid _isn’t_ his. You two better not be depriving me of being an aunt,” Thea eyes her protruding belly with the _most_ skepticism before abruptly changing the subject, “You ever seen _Law & Order_?”

“What?” she glares suspiciously because there’s never not a hidden meaning to Thea’s seemingly random questions, “Yeah, of course.”

“Like one of those episodes where all the frat brothers are covering for each other and the detectives figure it out because their alibis match perfectly, like they’ve been scripted?”

A tired sigh escapes Felicity before she replies, “I see where you’re going with this and I resent it.”

“I resent having to watch you moon at my brother like he hung the damn thing,” Thea retorts in a snap, ”But apparently I don’t get a choice in the matter.”

“No, you don’t so sit down and shut up.”

Thea takes the end of the conversation in stride and offers to get a refill that Felicity gratefully accepts. Standing alone in a corner is exactly what she needs after days of dealing with the press, which was made worse by the fact that it was a nightmare of her own doing. Now if only she could shake the feeling of being watched.

* * *

Dig sighs, causing Oliver to look over at him. When he notices he has Oliver’s attention, Dig casually observes, “She’s not going to disappear.”

“What?”

“Felicity," Dig nods towards the other side of the room where she’s just parted ways with Thea, “She’s not going to disappear. Lyla assures me they haven’t figured out how to use a drone strike to vaporize someone. Yet.”

Oliver cringes and fiddles a little with his cuff. “That’s more terrifying than comforting. What’s your point?”

“You can take your eyes off Felicity. She’s not going to disappear,” Dig repeats for the third time, as if he didn’t actually hear him the first time.

Shaking his head, Oliver quickly denies the accurate observation, “I’m not staring at Felicity.”

“You can stop sighing her name, too,” Dig notes sharply, and Oliver internally smacks himself to get some control going, “I guess that column in the corner behind her is super interesting some reason?”

“Well, if you were listening to our host, that column was a gift from Napoleon during the uh—” he cuts himself off, trying to remember what exactly the host’s name is and why that column is so important.

“Man, Orwood was talking about the _chandelier_.”

“Oh,” Oliver deflates and glances up. The chandelier takes up most of the ballroom and is freaking ornate, decked out with crystals and jewels and generally blinding. “I guess that makes more sense.”

Dig snorts into his scotch glass to cover his laughter at Oliver’s clear lack of attention at the moment. “You going to get off this horse and do something?”

“Do something about what?” he questions again, playing dumb.

“The fact that you repeat things as questions when you’re stalling for time.”

“I do—”

With a hard roll of his eyes, Dig interrupts Oliver’s denial, “You really think I care about that right now? Felicity! When are you going to unbreak up with Felicity?”

Before Oliver can respond, they’re interrupted by the woman in question.

“Yes? Have you been calling me over here, Dig?”

“Oh for the love of—” he throws his hands up, narrowly avoiding sloshing his drink, and grunts, “No, and I’m leaving.”

* * *

“Bye? What’s his problem?” Felicity jerks a thumb at their friend/her off-duty employee who’s gone off towards Lyla.

“Um, I don’t know. Maybe Sara‘s not sleeping lately,” Oliver lies badly. To distract her, he offers Felicity a smile and a compliment, “Anyway, you look beautiful.”

“So do you,” Felicity returns. She casts an appreciative look at him, “Suspenders are always a crowd pleaser.”

Oliver flushes as he remembers just how much his suspenders _pleased_ a certain crowd of one. A _private_ audience, if you would. He can tell the exact moment the implication registers with Felicity, and she turns away for a fortifying sip of sparkling juice.

“How are you feeling?” he asks sincerely. Unthinkingly, he steps closer, curving around her protectively. “Is the little one giving you any trouble?”

Felicity rests a gentle hand on top of her increasingly round stomach and smiles up at him. “Nope, all good here. Nausea’s a lot better this trimester.”

“Good. That’s good,” Oliver breathes in a sigh of relief. “I hate the idea of you being uncomfortable.”

“That’s very sweet, Oliver,” she allows even as she rolls her eyes at his over-protectiveness. “Sorry about the headlines, by the way. I thought those rumors died a long time ago. Wasn’t expecting to hear your name during the interview and I kind of needed to create a diversion.”

“It’s okay. Nothing I can’t handle.”

The media has never been his friend, and he grew accustomed to ignoring their rumors a long time ago. Besides, he loved hearing Felicity saying his name on video and calling their abbreviated sex life amazing. Oliver can’t deny the ego boost it gave him as well as the walk down memory lane. Then again, it’s not like he’s ever forgotten. How can he, especially with Felicity practically glowing these days?

“So,” he begins leadingly, not at all bothering to hide his obviousness, “can I give you a ride home?”

* * *

_Oh he definitely could._

The nausea might be gone, but the hormones have made a wild surge. Felicity can feel everything in her body tighten at the suggestion in Oliver’s voice and the heated look in his eyes. But it’s exactly how they— _she_ —ended up in this situation, even if they’re the only ones who know that for certain.

That’s not to say Oliver has been checked out of the consequences, but she’s the one with physical changes that are now impossible to hide. Yet he’s still staring at her like they’re in the middle of their short-lived but fiery fling when they could not keep their hands off each other. It’s _amazing_ for her self-esteem at a time when she’s starting to feel every minute change to her body.

“I don’t know that that’s a good idea,” she rejects him candidly but not without a lot of regret.

Oliver nods, his throat working as he swallows. “I understand but... Well, we need to talk. There’s a lot going on here, and we need a plan.”

Felicity can’t help but stare. Oliver not wanting to talk about anything of importance was the exact reason they couldn’t make it work in the first place. That man was locked up like the Fortress of Solitude, which is actually a terrible analogy given that so many villains broke into that place, whenever it came to his emotions and the future. And here he is, offering a conversation without her having to cajole him into one.

So, yes, it takes her a second to respond. A very long second during which Oliver fidgets and generally looks like he wants to flee the scene of the crime. That’s a real tall order when the metaphorical scene of the crime has literal legs and is one of his best friends.

“Okay,” Felicity agrees slowly, like it’s going to spook him into running, but Oliver releases a sigh of relief that turns into a smile. “Talking is good.”

“Okay, good,” he repeats, “I’m hoping we can get on the same page.” Before Felicity can worry about how ominous that sounds, Oliver adds on an eager and meaningful, “ _Together._ ”

For all her belief in strong women being able to manage on their own, Felicity lets herself dream for just a moment. A dream where she and Oliver manage to pull this thing together, move past their drunkenly staggering beginnings, and maybe make a real go of turning their friendship into something more. Then reality crashes into this picture perfect fantasy, and she frowns in concern.

“But I meant everything else I said in that interview,” Oliver stares in confusion so she’s quick to clarify, “About this being a personal matter and this kid and the media circus and privacy and the whole spiel really.”

Nodding rapidly, Oliver confirms, “I’m on board with all of that. Now can we please get out of here? There‘s only so much we can talk about before someone figures us out.”

Felicity glances across the room at Thea, Lyla, and Diggle, who are huddled together and watching them like hawks. Somehow, she thinks that cat’s out of the bag, too, when it comes to their friends and family. It only makes her more adamant to protect their secret miracle from the world at large.

Once they finish talking things through, and _celebrating_ talking things through, it’s not hard to work out a plan of discretion for her pregnancy and beyond.

* * *

Seventeen years later, their kid has fewer reservations.

The media is used to seeing them together at events and in photos. Despite all the speculation, neither of them gives an explanation for their closeness beyond being best friends who once upon a time had a brief relationship. Felicity grows even more famous due to her company’s success and candid accounts of being a working mother in a position of authority while Oliver maintains his ever popular profile as a rich, attractive man about town. Through it all, they remain notoriously single.

Felicity’s been open about how close Oliver, as her best friend, has been to her daughter, _almost_ like a father figure. And after the late-in-life reveal of Oliver’s son, William Clayton was accepted into their fold without question. They’d be a perfect, modern, blended family if only the two adults would just get together (again) already, or at least that’s what people in comment sections bemoan.

So no one’s surprised when Mia Smoak posts a picture of the four of them on her birthday. Mia’s behind the wheel of a presumably new car, Will in the passenger seat next to her, and their (respective) parents in the backseat. The kids are smiling wide, while Oliver and Felicity have a solid grip on their “oh, shit” handles and a generally terrified look to them.

Nothing at all out of the ordinary for the would-be couple and their offspring. Until a look at the caption makes a certain contingency of the internet lose its collective shit.

_Thanks, Mom and Dad! Big bro and I totally aren’t going to do donuts in the parking lot after you go to bed. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the thing. Obviously I wrote the concept in a rush without much fleshing out. Damn plot wouldn’t leave me alone so here’s the, shall we say, annotated version that’s about four times as long as the original.

The dress is backless, far more daring than she normally attempts but Thea was adamant. _So_ adamant that Felicity wonders if she has an ulterior motive. Perhaps, even, the same ulterior motive Felicity has.

From the entrance, she can see Oliver, the breadth of his shoulders in his tuxedo jacket, the security blanket way he keeps one hand in a trouser pocket as the other holds a glass with two fingers of scotch. She knows her best friend deep in his bones, his habits, his quirks, his weaknesses. 

It’s what makes her so nervous about tonight. 

They’ve been standing at the edge of a precipice for months now. Every time she contemplates letting go and embracing the free fall, something happens to drag her back to solid ground. This time, she’s decided against being a passive observer the world happens to and is going to actively seek out her own destiny.

Because, on some level, she’s always thought that’s what they are: destiny. No two people could be so close, so comfortable, so familiar, and so attuned without being meant for something more. _Right?_

But what if she’s wrong? It could ruin _everything_. On one hand, their bond is near unbreakable, but on the other... Well, this would be the breaking point, the one line she can’t uncross.

Mentally, Felicity rolls her eyes. It’s a simple thing. People do it every day. Yet she’s treating the prospect of asking Oliver Queen, her best friend, on a date like it’s the equivalent of the parting of the Red Sea, a miracle requiring assistance from above. 

In fact, she’s taken so long to get her bearings that Oliver’s noticed her presence, retrieved a glass of red wine, and approached her with a welcoming smile. He offers her the glass and greets her with a casual yet relieved, “Hey, there you are.”

“Can you give me a ride home?”

Felicity blurts out the question like the words are choking her. Oliver, dependable best friend that he is, notices the slightly frantic nature of her question and quickly pulls her aside. “Of course. Is there something wrong? Is someone bothering you? If that jackass—”

“No, no!” she hurries to reassure him and erase the worst-case scenario. “I just”— _phrased that question entirely wrong without actually conveying my intention_ —“feel like I haven’t seen you lately?”

“Oh,” his sigh of relief is obvious, and he gathers her hand in his for a quick, reassuring squeeze. “I miss you, too,” Oliver offers candidly, and Felicity about melts.

Oliver Queen does not admit to just anyone that he misses them. He says so frequently to Thea and once to Tommy after a month-long exile by his father. That was pretty much it. But here he is, smiling, holding her hand, telling her he misses her like it’s not having a major impact on her cardiac health.

Times like these, Felicity is one hundred percent, without a doubt, absolutely certain that Oliver reciprocates her entirely obvious feelings.

* * *

_Let go of her hand, you presumptuous asshole_ , Oliver scolds himself before carefully extracting his fingers. Who interlaces their fingers to hold their best friend’s hand? Creeps without boundaries, that’s who.

Felicity smiles at him despite the awkward handholding, and he takes a moment to appreciate their comfortable silence. There’s something about her that just... fits with him. He’s never experienced it before, this sense of peace just from being around a person, but with Felicity, it’s easy and natural.

Oliver knows he’s been a fuck up and knows his continually charmed life now is nothing short of a miracle. In that way, he can’t help but feel like one is all he gets. After all his mistakes, he can’t still have a loving family and loyal friends and also have the good fortune of being able to love his best friend openly and without reservation.

No, that’s not what he and Felicity are about. They rely on each other too much to risk their relationship on the exploration of an unknown, and frankly booby-trapped, dynamic. The reality of the situation doesn’t keep him from dreaming, though.

And when she turns away to greet Curtis, revealing her backless dress and the seeming miles of perfect skin, Oliver knows those dreams will haunt him again tonight. Driving Felicity home without following her to bed will be special kind of torture. But, still, he has absolutely zero self-preservation when it comes to spending time with her.

Neither of them last long at the event. They claim fatigue but really Oliver suspect it’s the weird energy humming between them, a sense of anticipation that grows exponentially the second they’re alone in his car. He doesn’t know what to say to disperse it, and Felicity is no help, staying uncharacteristically silent.

He pulls into her driveway and cuts the engine, barely a word having passed in the twenty minute drive. For an activity meant to make up for a lack of time together, they haven’t even tried to catch up on each other’s lives.

“Will you come in?” Felicity offers finally, nerves practically rolling off her. “I’d like to talk to you about something.”

Something that couldn’t be discussed in the silent drive over? Oliver nods mutely and follows her inside, like there is anywhere she could go and he wouldn’t blindly follow.

Surprisingly, Felicity heads straight for the kitchen, not exactly her usual domain. She grabs a bottle of wine, uncorks it, and takes a lengthy swig. Oliver’s eyebrows stay up even as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and holds the bottle out to him.

“Is it that bad?” he asks. He’s trying for teasing, but the words come out more concerned and alarmed because, well, that entire display.

Felicity grimaces and scrubs a hand over her face. “Depends on your definition, I guess.”

After a fortifying inhale, she tries to look him in the eye but immediately glances away. His concern is skyrocketing, and he wants to wrap her up in a hug until she can get the words out, but Oliver knows Felicity and that is not how Felicity operates.

“Here goes nothing,” she breathes quietly. He’s on tenterhooks. “I think we should consider something more.”

“More?” he repeats. They’re best friends and (silent) business partners. Aside from his bleeding heart, which has been on a silver platter waiting for her acceptance, what more can she want from him?

Felicity nods without saying anything, well, _more_ so Oliver wracks his brain’s continually updating list of “Felicity’s Concerns in Life.” The new budget has just been approved, she booked a spa weekend for her and her mom over Thanksgiving, she’s putting off some media outlet that wants to profile her.

None of those things remotely concern him except... 

Last weekend he overheard a comment to Dinah. It was said jokingly but with a hint of true frustration underlying her tone. To be blunt, Felicity hasn’t had a decent orgasm in far too long.

The eavesdropped comment put too many ideas in his head so Oliver fled to the other side of the house and tried to forget it entirely. And now Felicity’s standing in front of him, having invited him into her home, and asking him for _more_. Oliver would be more confused if he weren’t the one person she trusts most in this world.

“You want to have sex?” he blurts out the clarifying question and regrets his lack of eloquence when Felicity freezes.

She was hardly moving before but now she may as well be a statue about to be encased in bronze. 

“ _Sex?_ ” Felicity repeats in a daze. “You think I’m asking you for—”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was—”

“—oh my god—”

“—I _wasn’t_ thinking.”

“Wait!” she yells out to stop their talking over each other.

Oliver feels like his face is _on fire_ and he is not a man who blushes easily. His best friend asked him for help—he’s still unsure for what exactly—and he immediately jumped into the gutter. What a jackass.

“Are you”—Felicity swallows visibly—“were you _offering?_ ”

He chances a glance down at her body although it’s unnecessary. Oliver’s memorized everything about her ages ago. Worried the opportunity will pass and whatever sanity Felicity’s lost will come barreling back, Oliver meets her eyes and nods.

The next thing Oliver knows, he’s got an armful of Felicity. He instinctively caught her by the hips, and her legs are doing their best to defy the restrictive skirt of her dress and wrap around his waist. Her red, red lips press insistently against his lips, and it takes him a millisecond to open his mouth on a groan.

Then it’s all frantic touching, his and hers, an uncoordinated stumble into her bedroom, and everything heaven sent.

* * *

Felicity wakes up, cheek cushioned on a firm surface and generally feeling like she’s floating. When she gains full consciousness and realizes that she’s not just in bed but in bed _with Oliver_ , her instinct is to panic. 

Well, that’s her _brain’s_ instinct. 

Her _body’s_ instinct is to lick his abs, which are _right there_. Oliver certainly didn’t mind last night so, for once, she lets her body win out. Her overactive gray matter has never been happier to take a loss.

She’s tracing her tongue along a groove of his absurdly defined abdomen when Oliver shivers awake. He doesn’t look at all panicked by their current state of naked, pressed together, and, in her case, potentially taking a momentary lapse in judgement too far. No, he just gathers a handful of her hair in one fist and groans her name quietly before guiding her mouth back to his skin.

Felicity sucks a hickey onto his hip, and he whimpers his approval.

* * *

“That was _fun_ ,” Oliver exhales in a disbelieving laugh.

He imagined sex with Felicity to be so intense he could barely hold it together or decide where to start. And it had been both those things and so much more, but he didn’t expect it to be so much _fun_. In retrospect, he should have because he always has the best time with Felicity no matter where they are or what they’re doing. Sex is obviously not an exception to that rule.

She hums quietly, and he looks over once he catches his breath. Oliver is immediately on high alert. Felicity doesn’t look nearly as relaxed as she should feel after several award-winning orgasms. Instead, she looks contemplative and _tense_ in an unfamiliar way.

“It was,” she agrees although it sounds more like resignation. 

Oliver shoves himself upright, intent on figuring out what’s bothering her. But then she offers him a sly smile and smooths a thumb over her mark on his hip. 

“We should do it again.”

* * *

Felicity knows better than to accept an incomplete shipment. It’s a weird analogy, but one time she took delivery of a crate full of mislabeled and missing parts and had the worst time getting the order returned. Contract law apparently extends to matters of the heart on occasion.

Every time she sleeps with Oliver, which is starting to be a nightly occurrence, her heart cracks a little further, knowing that all she’s getting are pieces of him.

And that’s unfair because he gives her so much of himself already. She has his friendship, his respect, his loyalty, and his unequivocal trust. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her and vice versa. But that’s not enough for her greedy heart. She wants his love, too, and not the friendly, familial love he’s already freely extended but the romantic, forever kind he keeps locked away.

He makes her so happy, and she thinks she does the same for him. Except whenever she broaches the subject of more, a _different_ kind of more, and the future, Oliver turns cagey and shutters away everything but the veneer of a happy go-lucky playboy. He distracts her, with his kisses and his body and all the ways he’s learned to please her, but it loses its efficacy bit by bit.

Without realizing it, Felicity starts mourning a relationship that never was.

* * *

There’s a persistent pressure in his chest. A kind of panic that surges every time he sees Felicity smile. Admittedly, it’s an odd reaction to have to seeing his best friend happy, but it serves as a reminder that ultimately he is not the one who will bring her happiness.

Oliver tries to be what she needs in the moment, but it can’t last. Even as they enjoy each other’s company in both the old and new, unexplored ways, Felicity pulls away. He knows he’s losing her, piece by piece, and vows to provide her whatever happiness he can, while he can, in the limited ways he can.

Felicity is, after all, his very definition of joy.

* * *

Her throat tightens.

Felicity absolutely does not want to have this conversation but she can’t put it off any longer. Their friendship deserves more than this pathetic, whimpering death. A mercy kill of their extracurricular activities might be the only thing to save their most important relationship. Since Oliver is currently operating as if emotions have been outlawed, it’s up to her to initiate the mature, adult conversation.

And, damn, if that doesn’t make her resent him more.

Can’t give her his heart but can’t admit to it either and free her from this purgatory.

Oliver is nothing but resigned and a touch disappointed when she says the words.

“I don’t think we should do this anymore. It’s getting”—she won’t say _complicated_ when it would reveal too much of her emotional state to a man who never signed up for that responsibility—“I don’t know. It’s just not a good idea.”

“Was it ever?” he throws back with a rueful smile. Oliver shakes his head and leans in to press a long kiss to her cheek. He gently holds her face in his hands and kisses her quick, distracted and fleeting, a final time.

When he leaves, she covers her mouth with a hand and tries not to sob. For one of the first times in her life, Felicity fails.

* * *

Oliver has never been a gracious loser, but the older he gets, the more socially unacceptable it becomes to pitch a fit whenever he’s denied the thing he wants most.

And it’s not a thing he wants, but a person. A living, breathing person who also happens to be the most stubborn individual he’s ever had the frustration of meeting. God, he loves her so much.

But that’s not what she wants or needs from him. An amicable friendship, the dependability he’s always expressed for her ( _just_ for her), a solid shoulder to lean on. Those are the things she expects of him, not declarations of forever. 

Seeing her becomes too difficult. The armor he’s built stands no chance against how well Felicity knows him, and his ability to pretend to be just fine with the fact that she doesn’t want to be a woman he loves is lackluster at best. So he avoids her like doing so will undo his heartache.

* * *

Felicity tries so hard to be happy... to be okay... to _bear_ the loss of Oliver in good spirits. (It sounds so morbid like that, like he isn’t still a phone call away.) But she goes through great pains to be the definition of unaffected, which are almost entirely moot, since he’s suddenly nowhere to be found.

She becomes distracted and irritable. Tracing the root cause to Oliver only makes her more distracted and irritable because Felicity Smoak is not this affected by _any_ man. So she throws herself into work.

They must break some kind of patent office record for the number of filings in a month and the rate of approval. Publicity, funding, and projects all soar, forcing Oliver to actually pay attention to his heretofore silent investment. He attends board meetings, saying nothing but always voting in her favor, and she beats her stubborn heart into submission every time. 

Eventually, they find their way back to each other. That she was right back when, about amputation being the only way to save their friendship, provides little comfort. Felicity endures Oliver’s overtures of friendship, and her own, with shaky hands. The little glimpses of what could have been sting mightily and haunt her dreams.

They avoid her apartment, the scene of the crime(s), in silent agreement.

* * *

After a month of suffering a phantom limb, Oliver sucks it up. 

So he’s in love with his best friend. He’s not the first or only schmuck with unrequited feelings. He’ll get over it eventually, and that’s not just something he tells himself. He has to because Felicity is too important.

Instead of sending a representative, he attends the Smoak Tech board meetings. No matter what the topic, he casts his vote in favor of Felicity. It’s not just a symbolic gesture but the actual manifestation of his belief in her and her ability to accomplish any goal.

His gesture doesn’t go unnoticed. 

They start small with literal small talk at corporate and fundraising events. Slowly, but really over the course of less than two weeks, they work their way back to daily conversations and lives that are thoroughly entwined. Everyone surrounding them breathes quiet sighs of relief.

Oliver’s just starting to think they’ve made it to the other side of all this when Felicity informs him otherwise.

Looks like he got his forever after all, just not in the way he imagined.

* * *

She doesn’t know what to think, much less do.

This baby is a piece of Oliver, one that she can _keep_. 

And, well, if _Oliver_ won’t love her... 

No, that’s crazy. She’s not having this man’s child just to keep him near. That’s entrapment and a terrible reason to bring an innocent life into an already overpopulated and increasingly nightmarish world.

Against all odds, Felicity calls her mother.

“It’s not an ideal situation, sweetheart. But, well, you love Oliver, and he loves you—maybe not in the way you want—but there are worse situations children have been born into. On the other hand, I also understand if this isn’t how you want to start a family.”

“That’s not very helpful, Mom,” Felicity chokes out on a dry laugh because those are the very same arguments bouncing around her head.

“I know,” Donna sighs regretfully, “I wish I knew what the right decision for you would be but...”

Of course she doesn’t know. _Felicity_ doesn’t even know. And it’s her brain and her body and her _future_ at stake. Oliver’s future, too, but he’s made his support of her decision-making perfectly clear.

“If it helps, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I love you so much, Felicity. And everything—all the heartache over your father, the tough times I tried to hide from you—you are worth all of it and more.”

Just like that, her heart warms and settles all the nerves in her body. Felicity breathes in sharply and exhales, “I love you, too, Mom. Thank you for just absolutely everything.”

* * *

“I just— On some level, I’ve always wanted to be a mother, especially seeing everything my mom‘s gone through, and maybe this isn’t the _exact_ circumstance I imagined but, well, my brain, your brawn, this kid is going to have, like, impeccable genetics, and—”

“Felicity!” Oliver steps closer to interrupt, “What exactly are you saying?”

“I’m going to keep the baby,” she drops a protective hand to her still flat stomach, “and I know we’re just getting back to solid ground so I don’t— You’re not _obligated_ to anything is what I’m trying to say.”

He laughs, a humorless, defeated sound, and she recoils. It’s not for the reason Felicity thinks. It’s just— 

Felicity carrying his baby, already thinking of it as perfect, _impeccable_ , has been an unspoken dream for so long and yet... 

She’s right. These are not the exact circumstance either of them imagined. Not her for bringing her first child into the world and not him for starting a family with the woman he loves.

Oliver sobers, a serious expression taking over. “I’ll be there. I _want_ to be there. For everything. I don’t know what you plan on telling people but—”

“Um, definitely not that me and my best friend were so sexually frustrated we thought it’d be a good idea to knock boots for awhile and once we regained our sanity and cut it out, I found out I was pregnant,” Oliver grimaces at her blunt (and false on his part) description, but she doesn’t notice, “No, this baby is not unwanted. People don’t even have to know he was _unplanned_.”

“He?” Oliver questions eagerly, although logically even a person of his ignorance of pregnancy knows that it’s too early.

Felicity crooks a smile at him. “Not a feeling or anything. Just “it” seems disrespectful or whatever. I guess, he or she isn’t great either what with society becoming more progressive.”

“We can figure out what to call...” he wracks his brain for something not cliché and fails, “the little one.”

She snorts at the uninspired finish. “I think all anyone needs to knows is that I’m expecting, I’m happy, and I can’t wait to meet this _little one_ ,” her nose scrunches for a pause, “Oh, and I have absolutely zero intention of stepping down or back from work except for during the length of a reasonable maternity leave. What— what do _you_ think?”

Oliver hums and nods because it’s just like Felicity to be concerned about her _other_ baby, too. He tries to look at it from her perspective. It _would_ be better to just roll with the pregnancy news and never reveal that it’s the consequence of an ill-advised fling with her best friend. 

The latter would give investors and the general public too much ammunition to paint her as an impulsive, unreliable woman, who’s too emotional to run a company. The former would show her as a modern woman taking control of her family planning decisions without adhering to society’s rules. As much as it hurts his ego, the answer is pretty obvious.

“No surprise here but I think you’re right. All anyone else needs to know is that you’re pregnant and excited to start your family and that it won’t affect your work.”

It pains her, he can tell, but she reaches for his hand and gently corrects, “ _Our_ family.”

The picture that one word creates threatens to burst his heart. 

If only. 

If only they had started differently, had a real conversation about intentions and expectations before jumping into bed together, then, yeah, maybe it would be _their_ family. But, now, the best way for Felicity to thrive, for their _child_ to thrive, is for him to remain in the shadows, never quite a part of _their_ family. It’s heartbreaking in the worst way.

“Hey,” Oliver swallows around the lump in his throat, “don’t you have that big interview the end of next month? You might be showing by then.”

Her belly round with the proof that she’s carrying his child? Soon, it won’t just be a figment of his imagination. Oliver reddens and stares at the table.

Felicity perks up. “Oh yes! There is so much opportunity to put a spotlight on the abysmal family leave situation in this country.”

Of course, _of course_ , she would find the bright side to all this.

* * *

Oliver takes the news in stride, like there isn’t a bomb waiting to blow up their respective life plans. He’s going to be a _father_ , specifically the father of his best friend’s child. Doesn’t that freak him out?

Because it freaks _her_ out to think about how she’s carrying a baby who is one-half the man she loves and he still has no idea about her feelings. He’ll never know, too, because for all she can predict, that’ll be the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back and does send him running in the opposite direction.

When it’s no longer avoidable, she announces her pregnancy with gusto, leaving no doubt that this is a joyous occasion meant to be celebrated. Those closest to her do a decent job of hiding their surprise and extending sincere congratulations. Only the most tactless— _Thea_ —make pointed remarks about paternity tests and daytime television talk shows.

It’s not out of the question. The small contingency of the internet that considers her a media darling and minor celebrity in the vein of Bill Nye the Science Guy, or, worse, Elon Musk, has been overactive with speculation. As predicted, the perception of her as an expecting _single_ mother doesn’t entitle her to driving in the carpool lane but does create a buzz of conversation around family leave policies.

Deliberately, Felicity never addresses the matter of asexual human reproduction being physically impossible. Everyone knows there had to be a man involved in some capacity, but she refuses to entertain the question. There are only a few people with the lack of self-preservation instincts— _Diggle_ —to point blank ask Oliver if he’s the father. To his credit, Oliver never denies it but tap dances around the question like he’s Fred Astaire.

Felicity’s sure it’ll be comforting to their child later, that their father at least never refused to acknowledge his contribution to their existence. Then she rolls her eyes at herself and wishes she could indulge in just one more glass of wine. Maybe that would restrain all her passive-aggressive sarcasm.

She puts so much effort into being happy about her pregnancy and not mournful about the could-have-been’s with Oliver that she starts to research whether _pre_ -partum depression is a medically recognized condition.

* * *

“So tell me...”

“Oh no,” Felicity groans exaggeratedly, smoothing a hand over her stomach.

“Oh yes,” the reporter counters, glancing quickly at the path her hand takes, “the dreaded question.”

With a forced smile, she concedes, “Kind of hard to ignore the elephant—or baby bump—in the room, I guess.”

“Exactly! So you don’t blame me for asking?”

As if this topic hasn’t been extensively vetted by her publicist Dinah, every word of every question subject to approval. Still, Felicity shrugs like it’s entirely unexpected and off the cuff. “Someone was bound to. Go for it.”

“Any chance we’ll ever learn who the father of your baby is?” The reporter leans in, as if they’re sharing a secret and there aren’t multiple cameras and microphones positioned to best capture her every microexpression and exhale.

“No. _Hard no_ ,” Felicity’s tone is stone cold, and she pays zero attention to the reporter’s crestfallen expression, “Putting aside the creepiness of complete strangers wanting to know exactly how a fetus got in my womb and who put it there, this is a personal matter, and that’s all there is to it. I may have chosen a life that involves the spotlight because, _somehow_ , a successful female business owner is a novelty, but that doesn’t mean I have to subject my kid to it.”

“Understandable,” the reporter smiles tightly.

Felicity shrugs but doesn’t expand on her answer. She got a quote already, just not the one she wanted.

“But you can’t blame the world for engaging in a little speculation. Your last known relationship was with fellow scientist celebrity Barry Allen, who’s now married to journalist Iris West and a new father of two.”

Felicity genuinely grins. “They’re frakking adorable. I call them the Tornado Twins, which isn’t the most flattering nickname, but I think I can get away with it as their godmother.”

For once, the tangent isn't accidental. Felicity knows exactly what she’s doing in offering up this other piece of personal information. The media is, after all, a give and take relationship. If she wants good publicity for her company and the realities of being a working mother and the need for better family leave policies, then she’s got to give them some click-bait.

Her eyes grow wide as the reporter repeats, “ _Godmother?_ You’re the godmother to your ex’s kids?”

Shrugging, Felicity lets a smug smile slip. Take that, Gwyneth, and all her conscious uncoupling bragging.

“What can’t you do?” the reporter marvels, “This topic definitely hasn’t been approved, but I’m risking it anyway. Felicity Smoak, founder and visionary of a revolutionary technology company, soon-to-be single, working mother, the most amicable ex-girlfriend ever apparently—"

“Flattery gets you everywhere,” Felicity interjects, teasing a grin from the reporter.

“I’m hoping,” she tosses out. “Does that mean the rumors were true and “former paramour of billionaire, playboy, philanthropist Oliver Queen” is among your many accomplishments?”

Felicity blanches. This question she wasn’t expecting. Dinah stands so quickly, her chair goes flying, and she looks ready to cut the interview short at best and murderous at worst. But before Dinah can knock over a camera, Felicity holds up a hand to stop her.

“If only I’d known that I’d have to answer questions about a couple months of amazing sex for the rest of my life, I would have— No, that’s a lie. Still would have done it. _Him_ , I mean.”

The reporter looks like she’s about to pass out from glee, while Dinah actually, literally face palms. Felicity passes off a tight grin and a shrug in an attempt to be more nonchalant than she feels. God, is this what pulling a pin on a grenade is like?

She turns to the nearest camera and smiles directly into the lens, “Sorry, Oliver. Cat’s out of the bag.” Facing the reporter again, Felicity ruefully shakes her head, “He’s my best friend, now, _still_ , so he might eventually forgive me for that one.”

“ _Still?_ ” the reporter again repeats incredulously. “You’re still _best_ friends with _Oliver Queen_ even after”—she shakes her head and forces herself back on track—“You know, with all these options available, the world will never stop guessing who fathered your child.”

“Hey, science is a marvelous thing. I may not even know the answer to that myself,” Felicity points out logically. 

For all anyone else knows, she used an anonymous donor. It’s perfectly plausible that some schmuck—with impeccable genetics—fathered a kid bound to inherit a thriving company, and millions to boot, and has no idea about it.

With an air of disappointment, the reporter dejectedly agrees, “Right. The world will never know. Moving on—”

Dinah’s making furious slashing motions, and the production team seems to realize they’ve completely used up their rope because the reporter cuts herself off. “I mean, it’s been wonderful speaking with you. Thank you for your time, Felicity.”

Felicity manages a magnanimous smile and leverages herself out of the armchair. Diggle, in his capacity as her bodyguard, is immediately there with a helping hand. She leaves Dinah to deal with the fallout as she exits the studio and slips into the waiting car.

Well, that should be a fun couple days of headlines.

* * *

“There’s something wrong with you two.”

“What?” Felicity looks askance at Thea’s harsh and abrupt judgment.

Her longtime friend rolls her eyes. “No one looks at someone like that if they’re not fucking.”

“Thea!”

“ _What?_ ” Another eye roll. “I don’t care if he’s my brother. That’s a true fact.”

After a quick sigh, Felicity launches into her standard disclaimer. “Look. We tried that once. It didn’t work out, and we’re better off as friends. Hell, we’re lucky we managed to salvage that much out of it.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Thea, do you really want to go back to the days we avoided each other and could hardly be in the same room together?” Because that did happen for much too long. Felicity’s not exactly sure how much of that was her immature response and how much was Oliver’s, but getting past it took them months and then, well, _consequences_ , which they’re still coming to grips with.

“No,” Thea pouts.

“Exactly, so just—”

“I was going to say, before you _rudely_ interrupted," the sarcasm bleeds through as Thea loftily continues, "that I would rather go back to the days when you were deliriously happy together.”

Even though they never admitted to, well, _fucking_ , at some point it became obvious to their friends and family. She was sure certain of them were expecting it to lead to a relationship and not what they actually got: Felicity pregnant and Oliver having seemingly nothing to do with it.

“And I’m telling you that’s not happening." If Felicity’s starting to sound cranky and annoyed, well, she’ll just blame the mini human currently using her internal organs as a soccer ball. “For the last time, we’re better off as friends. Besides I’m _pregnant_.”

“Like he cares. And I’m still not entirely convinced this kid _isn’t_ his. You two better not be depriving me of being an aunt,” Thea eyes her protruding belly with the _most_ skepticism before abruptly changing the subject, “You ever seen _Law & Order_?”

“What?” she glares suspiciously because there’s never not a hidden agenda to Thea’s seemingly random questions, “Yeah, of course.”

“Like one of those episodes where all the frat brothers are covering for each other and the detectives figure it out because their alibis match perfectly, like they’ve been _scripted?_ ”

A tired sigh escapes Felicity before she replies, “I see where you’re going with this and I resent it.”

“I resent having to watch you moon at my brother like he hung the damn thing,” Thea retorts in a snap, ”But apparently I don’t get a choice in the matter.”

“No, you don’t so sit down and shut up.”

Thea takes the end of the conversation in stride and offers to get a refill that Felicity gratefully accepts. Standing alone in a corner is exactly what she needs after days of dealing with the press, which was made worse by the fact that it was a nightmare of her own doing. Now if only she could shake the feeling of being watched.

* * *

Dig sighs, causing Oliver to look over at him. When he notices he has Oliver’s attention, Dig casually observes, “She’s not going to disappear.”

“What?”

“Felicity," Dig nods towards the other side of the room where she’s just parted ways with Thea, “She’s not going to disappear. Lyla assures me they haven’t figured out how to use a drone strike to vaporize someone. Yet.”

Oliver cringes and fiddles a little with his cuff. “That’s more terrifying than comforting. What’s your point?”

“You can take your eyes off Felicity. She’s not going to disappear,” Dig repeats for the third time, as if he didn’t actually hear him the first time.

Shaking his head, Oliver quickly denies the accurate observation, “I’m not staring at Felicity.”

“You can stop sighing her name, too,” Dig notes sharply, and Oliver internally smacks himself to get some control going, “I guess that column in the corner behind her is super interesting some reason?”

“Well, if you were listening to our host, that column was a gift from Napoleon during the uh—” he cuts himself off, trying to remember what exactly the host’s name is and why that column is so important.

“Man, Orwood was talking about the _chandelier_.”

“Oh,” Oliver deflates and glances up. The chandelier takes up most of the ballroom and is freaking ornate, decked out with crystals and jewels and generally blinding. “I guess that makes more sense.”

Dig snorts into his scotch glass to cover his laughter at Oliver’s clear lack of attention at the moment. “You going to get off this horse and do something?”

“Do something about what?” he questions again, playing dumb.

“The fact that you repeat things as questions when you’re stalling for time.”

“I do—”

With a hard roll of his eyes, Dig interrupts Oliver’s denial, “You really think I care about that right now? Felicity! When are you going to unbreak up with Felicity?”

Before Oliver can respond, they’re interrupted by the woman in question.

“Yes? Have you been calling me over here, Dig?”

“Oh for the love of—” he throws his hands up, narrowly avoiding sloshing his drink, and grunts, “No, and I’m leaving.”

* * *

“Bye? What’s his problem?” Felicity jerks a thumb at their friend/her off-duty employee who’s gone off towards Lyla.

“Um, I don’t know. Maybe Sara’s not sleeping lately,” Oliver lies badly. To distract her, he offers Felicity a smile and a compliment, “Anyway, you look beautiful.”

“So do you,” Felicity returns. She casts an appreciative look at him, “Suspenders are always a crowd pleaser.”

Oliver flushes as he remembers just how much his suspenders _pleased_ a certain crowd of one. A _private_ audience, if you would. He can tell the exact moment the implication registers with Felicity, and she turns away for a fortifying sip of sparkling juice.

“How are you feeling?” he asks sincerely. Unthinkingly, he steps closer, curving around her protectively. “Is the little one giving you any trouble?”

Felicity rests a gentle hand on top of her increasingly round stomach and smiles up at him. “Nope, all good here. Nausea’s a lot better this trimester.”

“Good. That’s good,” Oliver breathes in a sigh of relief. “I hate the idea of you being uncomfortable.”

“That’s very sweet, Oliver,” she allows even as she rolls her eyes at his over-protectiveness. “Sorry about the headlines, by the way. I thought those rumors died a long time ago. Wasn’t expecting to hear your name during the interview and I kind of needed to create a diversion.”

“It’s okay. Nothing I can’t handle.”

The media has never been his friend, and he grew accustomed to ignoring their rumors a long time ago. Besides, he loved hearing Felicity saying his name on video and calling their abbreviated sex life amazing. Oliver can’t deny the ego boost it gave him as well as the walk down memory lane. Then again, it’s not like he’s ever forgotten. How can he, especially with Felicity practically glowing these days?

“So,” he begins leadingly, not at all bothering to hide his obviousness, “can I give you a ride home?”

* * *

_Oh he definitely could._

The nausea might be gone, but the hormones have made a wild surge. Felicity can feel everything in her body tighten at the suggestion in Oliver’s voice and the heated look in his eyes. But it’s exactly how they— _she_ —ended up in this situation, even if they’re the only ones who know that for certain.

That’s not to say Oliver has been checked out of the consequences, but she’s the one with physical changes that are now impossible to hide. Yet he’s still staring at her like they’re in the middle of their short-lived but fiery fling when they could _not_ keep their hands off each other. It’s _amazing_ for her self-esteem at a time when she’s starting to feel every minute change to her body.

“I don’t know that that’s a good idea,” she rejects him candidly but not without a lot of regret.

Oliver nods, his throat working as he swallows. “I understand but... Well, we need to talk. There’s a lot going on here, and we need a plan.”

Felicity can’t help but stare. Oliver not wanting to talk about anything of importance was the exact reason they couldn’t make it work in the first place. That man was locked up like the Fortress of Solitude, which is actually a terrible analogy given that so many villains broke into that place, whenever it came to his emotions and the future. And here he is, offering a conversation without her having to cajole him into one.

So, yes, it takes her a second to respond. A very long second during which Oliver fidgets and generally looks like he wants to flee the scene of the crime. That’s a real tall order when the metaphorical scene of the crime has literal legs and is one of his best friends.

“Okay,” Felicity agrees slowly, like it’s going to spook him into running, but Oliver releases a sigh of relief that turns into a smile. “Talking is good.”

“Okay, good,” he repeats, “I’m hoping we can get on the same page.” Before Felicity can worry about how ominous that sounds, Oliver adds on an eager and meaningful, “ _Together._ ”

For all her belief in strong women being able to manage on their own, Felicity lets herself indulge in the dream for just a moment. The dream where she and Oliver manage to pull this thing together, move past their drunkenly staggering beginnings, and maybe make a real go of turning their friendship into something more. Then reality crashes into this picture perfect fantasy, and she frowns in concern.

“But I meant everything else I said in that interview,” Oliver stares in confusion so she’s quick to clarify, “About this being a personal matter and this kid and the media circus and privacy and the whole spiel really.”

Nodding rapidly, Oliver confirms, “I’m on board with all of that. Now can we please get out of here? There‘s only so much we can talk about before someone figures us out.”

Felicity glances across the room at Thea, Lyla, and Diggle, who are huddled together and watching them like hawks. Somehow, she thinks that cat’s out of the bag, too, when it comes to their friends and family. It only makes her more adamant to protect their secret miracle from the world at large.

* * *

Oliver feels his hands get clammy. 

After months of pretending to be unaffected by Felicity carrying their child, he’s going to do it. He’s going to take the proverbial bull by the horns and lay it all out for her. And if she rejects his offer of, well, _all of him_ , then he’ll dedicate himself to being the best father possible, pour all the love he would have given Felicity _and_ their child into their child.

The silent drive back to her apartment feels like deja vu with the exception of the third person in the car with them. Oliver would be surprised by her choice of venue if he doesn’t know how utterly exhausted Felicity is. As proof, the moment they’re inside, she kicks off her heels and collapses onto the couch.

He takes up residence on the other side, lifting her feet to his lap and commencing a foot rub that has her groaning in appreciation. With her head tipped back and eyes closed, Oliver doesn’t have to hide his staring at her stomach. Just as he predicted, Felicity “popped” a few weeks ago just before her announcement and with enough time to create some buzz around her interview. He can’t stop staring.

After a few minutes, Oliver assumes Felicity’s fallen asleep. He might be full to bursting with his feelings, but he’s willing to wait for another night when she’s not so worn out. And not the good, satisfied worn out they achieved so often together, but worn out by _life_.

“Stop that,” she mumbles, halfheartedly trying to curl her feet up closer, “We need to talk about a _plan_.”

“The last few days have been a media circus, and I am over it. Over it! Do you hear me, Oliver? No more crazy bombshells that have reporters busting down my office door. And, yes, I realize it was mostly my fault but I’m just saying. No more. Need a plan that involves a deserted island.”

His hands fall limp, and Felicity pulls her feet back, dragging herself up to sit against the armrest. She hugs a throw pillow to her chest and cringes, “Sorry for the outburst. Hormones. What did you want to talk about?”

Potentially dropping another bombshell about her child’s paternity? Yeah, he’s not crazy enough to suggest that _now_. “I don’t know. I just know that we need to do _something_. I can’t just sit around waiting for little tidbits about our kid from news articles. I want to be there. For you and the little one.”

Felicity springs to her feet, faster than any pregnant woman has a right to be and than she, hater of all things cardio, has ever been.

“I know. I’m sorry,” she apologizes from the kitchen for some reason, “This is just so much harder to coordinate than I thought it would be.”

“If I were just _here_ ,” Oliver mutters under his breath. He’s not going to impose moving in on Felicity. As much as he wants to be there for her, she’s made it clear that she can handle things on her own.

Felicity returns bearing a gift. Oliver immediately recognizes the print out of a sonogram and accepts it eagerly. “I know you wanted to come today but with the cameras still following us around...”

“I know,” he soothes. The attention is a combination of both their profiles, his mostly inherited and hers earned with blood, sweat, and tears. 

After trying to explain the developmental differences to him, Felicity shrugs and admits, “I’ve got no idea, man. I just pretended to during the tour, but the doc said healthy so that’s all I care about.”

“I love you.”

The words burst out of his mouth, but he can’t regret them. He’s holding tangible proof of their child, even more tangible proof resting lightly against his arm, and Felicity’s going on about how happy she is for their healthy kid. It would be a tragedy not to say anything.

“What?” Felicity questions, eyes _so_ wide, “I mean, I love you, too, Oliver, but what?”

The dam breaks, and he twists to take hold of her hands. “I’ve been in love with you for what feels like forever. I love you and this kid and I want to be here, with you, all of the time."

Her eyes brighten, and her lips tremble. “If you’re just saying this because I’m—”

“I’m not,” he immediately reassures her, “although it’s kind of helped with the urgency. Felicity, _please_. I should have told you at the beginning. It was never just amazing sex.”

Felicity laughs shakily, tearily, “ _So_ amazing.”

“If you’re serious... Oliver, I love you, too, _like that_ , I mean,” she expresses shyly, and he can’t wait any longer.

Oliver leans over and kisses her fiercely, so differently from the last time he tasted her lips. Then he forced himself to pull away immediately before he did something regrettable like spill his heart, this time he gently eases back and enjoys Felicity’s blissful expression.

“I missed you,” he confesses.

Her eyes snap open, and next thing he knows his shirt is gone and his pants are unbuttoned.

* * *

Felicity wakes up feeling like she’s floating. There’s no panic this morning, just pure, unadulterated joy as she rests on Oliver, their baby propped up against his hip. He skims a reverential hand down her side, and they share a smile like it’s a secret.

The plan is to _live_.

Their personal lives are no one’s business but their own. Sure, their friends and family will get an explanation of sorts, but they trust them not to cause a ruckus about it. 

The rest of the world can fuck off.

Once the attention dies down, they’ll do their best to stay under the radar. It may often be out of their hands by the nature of their reputations and professions, but to whatever extent controllable, they’ll keep their family life private.

Yes, they’re best friends as confirmed time and time again but they never say they’re _just_ friends.

* * *

Seventeen years later, their kid has fewer reservations about their personal lives.

The media is used to seeing them together at events and in photos. Despite all the speculation, neither of them gives a detailed explanation for their closeness. Not even when property records (and the ever vigilant paparazzi) show they purchased neighboring homes, and Google Maps satellite view reveals they tore down the backyard fence.

“We’re best friends. We dated once,” is an open and shut ( _scripted_ , thank you, Thea) answer that never quite addresses the current romantic status of their relationship.

Felicity grows even more famous due to Smoak Tech’s success and her candid accounts of being a working mother in a position of authority while Oliver maintains his ever popular profile as a rich, attractive man about town. Through it all, they remain notoriously single, as far as the public is concerned.

Felicity’s been open about how close Oliver, as her best friend, has been to her daughter, _almost_ like a father figure. And after the late-in-life reveal of Oliver’s son, William Clayton was accepted into their fold without question. They’d be a perfect, modern, blended family if only the two adults would just get together (again) already, or at least that’s what people in comment sections bemoan.

So no one’s surprised when Mia Smoak posts a picture of the four of them on her birthday. Mia’s behind the wheel of a presumably new car, Will in the passenger seat next to her, and their (respective) parents in the backseat. The kids are smiling wide, while Oliver and Felicity have a solid grip on their “oh, shit” handles and a generally terrified look to them.

Nothing at all out of the ordinary for the would-be couple and their offspring. Until a look at the caption makes a certain contingency of the internet lose its collective shit.

_Thanks, Mom and Dad! Big bro and I promise not to do donuts in the parking lot after you go to bed. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!_

**Author's Note:**

> I really just wanted to write that last scene.


End file.
